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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22373737">Going Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/transrich/pseuds/transrich'>transrich</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Canon Compliant, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Canon, Suicide, eddie is dead and richie misses him, hanbrough stanpat and benverly are all there but only mentioned so i’m not tagging them, its not graphic but it happens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:54:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,812</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22373737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/transrich/pseuds/transrich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The clown is gone. Eddie is too. Richie has a decision to make.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Going Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Like it says in the tags, there is suicide, self harm, and alcohol and drug abuse in this, so please consider your mental health when reading this xx<br/>Regardless, I hope you enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It hurt. It never stopped hurting. Richie drove all the way back to L.A., stopping only for gas. He wanted to get as far away from Derry as possible, fast as possible. But he didn’t forget. Even when he was so sleep deprived he nearly crashed on the highway, he didn’t forget the sight of Eddie impaled on one of Its massive claws. How the blood dribbled down his chin as he took his final breaths. How none of them would let him </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wanted to stay. He would’ve died with him. He wished he had. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tried drowning it in liquor. Drank himself numb. All that did was leave him sobbing on his couch in the mansion that he’d bought after his first appearance on SNL. It had always been too big for one person. He joked that he should’ve bought a shack instead so people didn’t think he was compensating for anything. But it had always been empty. And it felt even emptier without Eddie. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He cried himself to sleep every night. He woke up in the morning with a stiff back from passing out on the couch and eyes so puffy he could barely open them. He had no energy for anything anymore. He got his groceries delivered, although he hardly ate, and slept through most of the day. He canceled all his shows and nobody knew why. The press speculated. What happened to Richie Tozier? He took a trip and disappeared off the face of the earth. He’d missed a show in the summer and never went back. What possibly could’ve caused it? His manager was furious, Richie remembered. They’d had to refund all the tickets. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His manager had called him repeatedly. Richie ignored him. Eventually, he stopped calling. He never cared about Richie. Only the money. The jokes that weren’t his brought in the money. He’d never been allowed to write his own material, not since he’d signed. The thought made him burst into tears again, remembering how Eddie could tell. He could always tell when Richie wasn’t Richie. When he was sunken into himself, subdued. He still made everyone laugh. That was his job. His specialty. Richie Trashmouth Tozier. But Eddie could tell just by the way Richie’s eyes didn’t light up when he cracked a joke about Eddie’s mom. He didn’t have to be Trashmouth Tozier with him. He could just be Richie. He’d never been more comfortable with anyone than he’d been with Eddie. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d had a fleeting crush on Connor. Always </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, never Bowers. He hadn’t known. Not until that day at the arcade. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get out of here, you fucking faggot. You didn’t tell me this town was filled with little fairies. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was putting on a show for his cousin, Richie was sure of it. Even as a thirteen-year-old, he could see it. But for the rest of that summer, every time he saw him he got a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t like him after that. He’d been comfortable with him, too. But it was nothing like how Eddie had made him feel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been scared for anyone to know. The whispers in town of what happened to boys who touched boys. They’d know. If he touched the other boys, they’d know his secret. But he couldn’t keep his hands off them. Not even just Eddie. Mike, Ben, Bill, Stan—he touched them more than Bev. Not because he didn’t love Bev as much as the rest of them, but because she didn’t like to be touched. So Richie’s constantly seeking hands found the curves of Ben’s stomach, the dips of Bill’s waist, Stan’s soft curls and Mike’s strong biceps. He loved them all in the purest way, strong and clear and true. That was a love that he craved, that he shouldn’t be ashamed of but still was. These gentle touches found themselves in the dark, in the safety of the clubhouse or the empty barn. The only one who always responded with a snarky comment along with a dusty blush was Eddie. Richie never saw the latter. He only heard the </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't touch me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hate it when you do that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It hurt, more than if anyone else had said it, because by thirteen and a half, Richie knew that he was utterly and deeply in love with Eddie Kaspbrak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d looked at girls </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that</span>
  </em>
  <span> before. They were pretty. Hot, even. He’d stolen a porn magazine from the pharmacy once and spent hours poring over it. He liked girls a lot, there was no doubt about that. But they weren’t Eddie. Eddie was different. Eddie was a spitfire and a hypochondriac and if anyone had asked Richie who he thought he was going to like it wouldn’t have been him. But it didn’t matter who he thought he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> like, because he knew he liked Eddie more than he’d ever like anyone else. He did stupid shit to get his attention, like mouthing off in class and cycling in circles so fast he fell off his bike and had to get stitches in his chin. Eddie had been ripshit that day, going on and on about how many infections he could get and how he was going to have to take care of him because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie wouldn’t do it the right way and he was always getting into shit and why would he do that? And even though his face was bright red as he ranted, his eyes were shining with tears because Richie had gotten hurt and it looked really bad. And Richie just watched, for once saying nothing because he could listen to Eddie talk for hours. How could a boy be so pretty? He never understood that. Girls were pretty. Boys were handsome. Or strong. And Eddie was both of those things, too, but he was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretty</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and Richie had never been a fan of his own until he saw Eddie’s. His skin was smooth and he somehow never had acne, which was crazy because he was on the freshman track team and Richie saw how much he sweat when he ran and even that was pretty, which he didn’t understand either. When Richie sweat, he looked—well, he didn’t look good. But Eddie just looked prettier. It wasn’t fair. And seeing him standing there, with tears in his eyes, had Richie’s chest aching with something he couldn’t describe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It ached now, too. It felt like he’d been the one to be impaled. Richie found himself rubbing his chest often, something he’d never done before. The ache was deep down, and no amount of booze or weed or coke—he’d done coke until his nose bled and he couldn’t remember where he was—could drown it out. He wished he could do something—anything—to bring Eddie back. But he couldn’t. It was something that had taken him too long to come to terms with. He couldn’t bring Eddie back. But there was something he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once Richie set his mind to something, he stuck to it until it ended, for better or worse. That was how he found himself in his car, driving all the way back to Derry. Maybe if he was in Derry, it would work. It was crazy, but they’d been terrorized by an inter-dimensional killer clown for decades. Crazier things had happened.  </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When Richie arrived in Derry, he didn’t tell a soul. It wasn’t like he had anyone to tell. Bill and Mike were in Florida, Ben and Bev were sailing somewhere on their boat with their dog, and Stan and Eddie...Richie laughed dryly. Stan and Eddie were no help to him now. Not anymore. They’d all exchanged phone numbers before leaving Derry, but Richie never called. Never texted. They had their own lives, their own loves. Why should he bother them when he was so coked up he couldn’t find his way home, or when he slit his left wrist and then frantically pressed a towel to it as he drove himself to the hospital because going out like Stan did would’ve been too much for his soul to bear? They didn’t need the burden of his life on their consciences. They were better off without him anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie parked his car and turned it off, leaving the key on the seat. Vandals could have it, for all he cared. He didn’t need it anymore. He got out and stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie—Eddie’s hoodie. He’d taken his clothes home with him when he left the first time. Nobody else was going to wear them. Sure, most of it didn’t fit—even as an adult, Eddie was 5’9” to Richie’s 6’1”—but he had a few sweatshirts that were just fine. Richie made himself cry over and over imagining a life where he got to see Eddie wearing them every day. Walking sleepy-eyed into the kitchen in a hoodie and boxers as Richie tried and failed to make pancakes, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing soft kisses to the back of his neck—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie grabbed the railing and stepped over the side. It was thin and unstable, and he wobbled as he looked down at the rushing water below. He ran his fingers along the splintered wood on the other side and made a choked sound when he felt it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>R + E</span>
  </em>
  <span>, carved by a terrified thirteen-year-old boy when he didn’t want anyone to know the way his chest ached with love when he thought of his best friend. Recarved in a silent declaration to the man to whom he was never able to say it out loud. He ran his fingers over it again and let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know if there was a Heaven, or a Hell. He didn’t believe in the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>all gays go to Hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing. That’s not what he was worried about. He was worried about Eddie. If there wasn’t a Heaven—and Eddie went to Heaven, Richie knew that—if there wasn’t one, then this was for nothing. Almost. At least all the pain would be over. But if there was a Heaven, then Richie would see him again. He would get to be with him. He could confess his love and they could be together for eternity in the afterlife. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>; he could even see Stanley again. Bird-watching, puzzle-doing, got-pegged-by-his-wife Stan. There was no downside to it. Richie couldn’t see one. Everything would be fixed when he did this. Everything would be better. Richie closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then he let go. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing Richie saw was light. Well, the first thing he saw was red, really. The backs of his eyelids were bright red. When he opened his eyes, though, he saw light. He couldn’t make out a single detail. He could hear something, though. Just barely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Richie?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie frowned and pushed himself up. He looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. His stomach dropped when he realized where he was. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It didn’t work.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He seemed to have washed up on the shore of the quarry. But he didn’t feel like his body was broken into millions of pieces by the rocks off the kissing bridge. He had pushed himself up. He could look around and it didn’t hurt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Richie?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There it was again. The voice. Where was it coming from? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who </span>
  </em>
  <span>was it coming from? He pushed himself to stand and began walking. He should’ve been more concerned that it didn’t hurt, but now he was focused on finding the voice. He kept walking until he reached the top of the cliff, every so often hearing the voice call out softly. “Who are you? Where are you? What do you want?” he begged, looking out at the quarry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Richie,” the voice breathed behind him, and Richie spun around to face it. He stared for a moment before falling to his knees with a sob. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s you. It’s you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie stood in front of him with a mixture of elation and horror. It contorted his face in a way that made Richie laugh between his sobs. He was standing proud, eyes bright as they swam with tears. He didn’t have any scar from Bowers stabbing him, and there was no claw ripping through his chest. No gaping hole in the center like Richie had seen in his nightmares over and over. But maybe that was due to Eddie being fifteen again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy stepped forward—stumbled, really—and then fell to his knees in front of Richie. Eddie wrapped his arms around him as he sobbed, rocking him back and forth. “It’s me. I’m here. I’m here, Rich.” He pressed Richie’s head to his shoulder, stroking his hair, and all of a sudden Richie felt very small. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I dead?” he whispered, and Eddie’s lack of response was all he needed to hear. Richie took a gasping breath of relief. This wasn’t a dream. He was dead, really dead. And Eddie was right here with him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why, Richie?” Eddie whispered, continuing to rock with him. “Why did you do it?” Richie could feel the top of his head begin to get damp with the other boy’s tears. He grabbed the back of his shirt and took a few deep breaths before he could respond. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t live without you. I couldn’t live in a world where I remembered you and you weren’t there. I remembered everything. How your eyes crinkled when you laughed. How your hair had gold streaks in it in the sun. How your voice did that thing where it went up when you got mad and then you got mad that your voice went up so it got even higher. How your lips looked so soft that I always wanted to kiss you but I was always scared that you’d slap me or something so I never did—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then Eddie was kissing him, his lips just as soft as Richie’d imagined they would be, and his glasses were chunkier than they used to be and bumped against Eddie’s face. Richie took them off and barely had enough time to recognize that they were his old ones before they were kissing again. Their hands were in each other’s hair and it was clunky and messy just like it would’ve been if they were teenagers because they </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> teenagers now and that made him pull back. “Do we get to stay like this?” Eddie grinned and nodded. “Forever?” He nodded again, and kissed Richie softly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what happened between dying and coming here, but we’re alive and healthy and nothing’s wrong here. Not anymore.” Eddie stroked Richie’s face, laughing through his newly-forming tears. “I hate to say I’m happy—no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>beyond</span>
  </em>
  <span> happy to see you, Rich. I hate that you did this to yourself...but I missed you.” He pressed his forehead to Richie’s and sniffled. “I missed you, Richie.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I missed you too,” Richie whispered, then pulled back again. “Wait. Stanley?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s here,” Eddie confirmed with a grin. “We can go see him, if you want. It’s not just the quarry. We have all of Derry...but it’s not like how it was when we were there. It’s better. Just us. We have the whole town to ourselves.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie wiped away more tears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanley</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He laughed and nodded. “Okay. We can go. But hold on just one second.” He slipped his glasses on and cupped Eddie’s face, taking it all in. His freckles, the specks of gold in his brown eyes that matched his hair, his plush lips. The corner of Richie’s own lips quirked up and he kissed the other boy again. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie helped Richie stand, looking up at him. “You did grow into your looks, like Bev said—in a scruffy sort of way,” he said fondly, making Richie laugh. “But I missed this. Your lankiness. And your big glasses. You always looked a little bug-eyed, but I thought it was cute,” he admitted. Richie’s eyes widened, and Eddie giggled. “Like that. Cute, cute, cute!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, that’s my line!” Richie protested, his cheeks pink as Eddie reached up to pinch them. He laughed. God, he’d missed him. He missed the banter that came easy as breathing. He knew then more than ever that he’d made the right decision. This was all he’d ever wanted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie linked Richie’s pinkie with his own and began swinging it, as they started walking, nudging his shoulder. “Come on, Rich. Let’s go home.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Richie thought, smiling as Eddie leaned his head on his shoulder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You were always my home, Eddie. I’m already there. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know this one was angsty but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! Check out my tumblr @chaotickaspbrak and for the love of God, do not read anything else on here because I haven’t posted anything in a long time.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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